Ruby Guardian (13 page)

When he joined his soldiers, Vambran knew what they had to do, and he didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Crescents!” he said, running into a position in front of his troops, turning his back to the enemy for a moment and facing the remains of his company. “We’re pinned between two larger forces, coming from either direction.” Vambran gestured both ways along the beach. “This is a lawless land where anyone you meet is an enemy until proven otherwise. Their intentions are clear, and there are too few of us to stand and fight. Once again, I must ask you to retreat from the battle, though I know it leaves a foul taste in your mouths to do so.” There was some muted rumbling among the men and women formed up in front of Vambran, but he held up his hand for silence.

“We’ll make a break for the trees,” he said, pointing behind himself. “Keep together as much as you can because we’re going to have to plow through their skirmish line to get to the woods. They are mounted, but they are strung out enough that we ought to be able to punch a hole through them and melt into the forest. Once there, we can use the cover to our advantage and convince these bastards to go find easier pickings elsewhere.” A handful of encouraging shouts issued forth, but most of the twenty-three were subdued, silent.

Knowing that delaying any longer would cost them opportunity, Vambran wasted no more time. He nodded to Horial, who issued the order for the troops to begin moving forward. Initially the Crescents moved in a smooth, cohesive block, with the center portion remaining in a straight line and the flanks, the crossbowmen, trailing out to either side, so that the whole formation appeared to be something of a blunt-nosed wedge, moving right toward the thin line of skirmishers.

As they drew closer to the tree line, Vambran saw that the lead soldiers among the cavalry had met up, closing the line, and several had dismounted and turned toward the advancing Crescents. He saw the archers among the enemy begin to bunch together in front of them, preparing for the confrontation. To either side, the marching columns were also deploying, spreading out into lines and beginning to advance more quickly, hurrying to cut the Crescents off before they could defeat the more lightly armed skirmishers and slip away.

It would be close.

Vambran began to realize his miscalculation as soon as the first magical effects materialized among his troops. It naturally occurred to him that some among the enemy would be able to draw upon magic to aid them, as he often did himself, but he had not expected them to be concentrated so heavily among the mounted skirmishers. But it made sense, he realized, for they could wield their magic from afar and on the move, much in the same way they often engaged the troops from a distance with their ranged weaponry. Plus, the lieutenant realized, they might have expected the Crescents to make a run for the forest and needed to be prepared for it.

All of that understanding of military theory did nothing to change the fact that Vambran’s plan to break for the trees was being thwarted. In the very center of the line, the coarse sea grass that grew heavily in the sand came alive, growing and squirming about, wrapping tendrils of plant fiber around the soldiers’ feet. Several men went down, thoroughly entangled in the animated, writhing growth that had a hold of them. As they tumbled into the sand, more of the greenery latched on, pinning them helplessly.

At another point, on the left flank where the crossbowmen moved obliquely, the ground seemed

to become as slippery as a lard-coated floor, causing several more Crescents to stumble and fall to the ground. They scrabbled about, trying to find some purchase on the greasy, slimy terrain, but it was pointless. They could not maneuver effectively at all and fell behind.

“Keep moving!” Vambran ordered. “Run!” He hated the words as soon as they issued from his mouth, but the lieutenant understood the tactic all too well and realized he couldn’t save everyone. To stop and aid the other men would only allow the larger forces to close in and cut them all off.

Just like in the water, Vambran lamented. Damn you, Lavant!

The remaining Crescents began to charge the skirmishers’ position, and Vambran sprinted along with them, peering ahead. Beside the mercenary officer, three soldiers stumbled and dropped to the ground, apparently unconscious—or asleep, Vambran decided. He considered stooping down and trying to wake them, but he had already given the order not to pause, and he knew hesitating would only mean his capture or death. His heart heavy for the fate of the three, Vambran pressed on. He tried not to think of their names, their families, as he moved away. He shoved the knowledge to the back of his mind as he fled. He could grieve later.

When a wave of fear washed over Vambran, he was able to maintain his composure and ignore it, but two more soldiers on either side of him froze in mid-step, turned, and fled back the way they had come. Even as he lamented the loss of two more devoted members of the company, Vambran spotted the spellcaster responsible for the magic. The man was still mounted and was issuing orders as he prepared another incantation. The lieutenant stopped momentarily, bringing his crossbow up. He had only

a handful of bolts, having received a share from the remaining ammunition, but he did not hesitate to use it. The cord on his weapon was fresh and dry, and the missile flew true, striking the spellcaster squarely in the chest. The man let out a panicked scream and clutched at the bolt. He lurched in the saddle, drawing back on his reins such that his mount spun away awkwardly, dropping him to the ground.

Vambran ran on.

Other members of the company had slowed in order to fire a bolt or two in the direction of the enemy line . blocking their path to the trees, and the missile fire was doing its work well. Already Vambran could see that three or four skirmishers were down, and numerous riderless horses milled about in their midst. The rest of the lightly armed soldiers were moving aside, unwilling to stand before the charging remnants of the Crescents’ double-wing formation.

Vambran felt a missile of some sort whistle past his head as he rushed toward the cover of the trees, and when he was a few paces from the initial foliage, one of the skirmishers loomed up before him, a staff held out in both hands threateningly. The other soldier was sallow-skinned, his facial features long and narrow. Absently, Vambran guessed he might have been from the plains of the Shaar. He monitored the man’s stance warily as he rushed toward his enemy, and just when the skirmisher shifted and began to bring the staff around to swipe at the lieutenant’s head, Vambran altered his direction and lowered his shoulder.

The maneuver sent Vambran plowing into his opponent, who managed to get a single, feeble strike in against Vambran’s back, the blow made ineffectual by both his breastplate and the too-close distance between the two. As the lieutenant collided with his adversary, he heard the other man’s breath leave

his body in a rush, and the pair tumbled across the ground haphazardly.

Vambran wanted to yank his dagger free and deal a killing blow to the skirmisher, but there was no time. Already the main force to his left had closed to within bow range, and a hail of arrows was dropping down among the straggling Crescents behind him. In another few moments, the troops would be on him and his men, and there wouldn’t be enough time to disappear into the depths of the forest. Instead of finishing the man off completely, Vambran rolled to his feet again and rushed on, leaping over the heavy underbrush that marked the very fringe of the tree line.

As he crashed into the bushes and began to push through into the taller trees, vines and branches began whipping at Vambran and enveloping him, trying to ensnare him.

Waukeen! he thought, desperately yanking his arms and legs free and trying to surge forward. Can’t get hung up here! Must get to cover!

Vambran could hear the frustrated shouts of other members of his company, all around him in the heavy undergrowth, as well as the sounds of enemy soldiers gathering just beyond the edge ‘ of the trees. The proximity of the infantry forces closing in lent a desperate fervor to his efforts, but Vambran was unable to make any headway through the enchanted plants.

In one last panicky effort, Vambran managed to yank one arm free. He reached up and took hold of the medallion hanging from the chain on his neck and spoke a beseeching prayer to Waukeen for strength. Immediately, the lieutenant felt a surge of energy course through his limbs, and with his newfound power, he succeeded in breaking free of the worst of the grasping, coiling tendrils of plant

growth. He lunged forward, each step a superhuman effort, and finally, he was able to slip beyond the range of the enchanted growth and dart deeper into the forest.

Vambran turned after a dozen or so steps and peered back toward the open ground. He could see several soldiers, armed with crossbows and a variety of bladed weapons, pushing into the trees where he had just been. One of the men spotted him and shouted a warning to the rest, but as they neared the edge of the writhing, clutching plant life, they had to hold up, and they instead chose to shoot at him from where they stood. Vambran turned and slipped away, darting behind the first thick tree trunks to evade their missiles.

As Vambran moved deeper into the forest, the shadowtops that predominated the woods became taller and thicker, their high branches forming a heavy canopy that left him in gloomy dimness. The area around the base of the trees became more open and easily traversed, for little undergrowth could gain the sunlight needed beneath those towering shadowtops.

Knowing he was moving in more open terrain made the lieutenant wary, and he cocked his crossbow and kept a watchful eye all around. At one point, he heard the soft, rustling sounds of movement to his left, but he could not see anyone. Unsure of whether it was friend or foe flanking him, Vambran gave a whistle, a birdcall he had taught his company to signal one another. The answering whistle came back, and Vambran angled his progress in that direction.

After a few more strides, he came upon two other members of the company. Burtis was sitting, his back against the bole of a tree, a nasty gash in his thigh. Filana, one of the handful of women who served in

the Crescents, was kneeling down as though she had been tending to the wound. Both of them had their crossbows leveled at Vambran as he approached, but when they realized who it was, the relief on their faces was clear.

Vambran gave a signal for continued silence then motioned that he would circle their position and watch for any others approaching. Both of his soldiers nodded, and Filana returned her attention to the gash. The lieutenant set out again, making wide circles around the central position where Filana and Burtis were, and it did not take him long to spot and signal other members of the group to join him.

After only a few moments, Vambran had half a dozen mercenaries gathered at the tree. In addition to the pair he had already found, Vambran managed to round up Horial and Adyan, the two sergeants from his own platoon, as well as the gold dwarf Grolo Firefist, who was a sergeant for the other platoon in his company. The last mercenary who had made it into the woods was a young man named Elebrio, who had just joined the Crescents earlier that summer.

Together, the seven of them huddled together next to the tree, waiting and watching Vambran for some sign of what they should do next. The lieutenant stared back at each of them, feeling numb. From forty men that morning, his command had been reduced to six. Each face reflected that same sense of loss he was feeling. Each person, standing shoulder to shoulder with what was left of their company, seemed shaken and defeated. Vambran felt anguish, as though he had somehow let them all down. He had led them into the disasters of the ship attacks and the ambush on the beach.

No! He silently insisted, realizing that letting those doubts fester would only further damage the

chances they had at survival. Lead them now; accept responsibility for your failures later. If they’ll let you lead them, he added dismally.

“Lieutenant?” Horial queried, giving his superior an expectant look.

Understanding that his sergeant was trying to give him an opening to assert himself, Vambran nodded. “Scout back along our trail,” he said at last, looking at Horial, beginning to think about strategy rather than his own wretched sense of gloom. “They haven’t entered the woods in force, yet, but they will as soon as they can clear out their own magical traps.” The sergeant nodded and crept off. Vambran turned back to the rest of his group. “Be ready to move out at a moment’s notice,” he said.

“Sir?” Adyan said, a nervous look in his eye. When Vambran motioned for the sergeant to speak, he drawled, “You’re not planning to cross these woods, are you?”

Vambran sighed heavily. “Not if I can help it,” he answered at last. “But there’s an army between us and freedom, and we may not have a choice.”

“That means leaving the rest behind,” Grolo said flatly.

Vambran raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “Yes, it does,” he said. “What’s your point?”

“No point, sir,” Grolo answered. “I just wondered what your intentions are regarding the rest of them.”

“We’re seven to a hundred, not good odds. But my intentions are to rescue them,” Vambran said.

Not a one of the mercenaries spoke, but Vambran could tell from the determined looks on each of the five soldiers’ faces that they still believed in him, were ready to follow him into battle. Especially to save companions. That, if nothing else, gave him hope.

At that moment, Horial slipped back into view. “They’re mustering a large sweeping force and

entering the tree line,” he reported. “It looks like they’re coming after us.”

“Then the rescue has to wait,” Vambran said. “On your feet. We’re going deeper into the woods.”

With one look back, Vambran set out. He hoped he wasn’t taking his remaining command into more trouble.

D

The first sensation Kovrim Lazelle became aware of was a steady, painful throbbing in his head, centered on a spot on

the back side of his skull. After that, the priest became conscious of numerous other aches throughout his body, as though he had been beaten and battered by a gang of club-wielding thugs. He groaned and began to move his arms gingerly, feeling gritty, wet sand beneath the palms of his hands. The sounds of the surf crashing against a nearby shore brought the man to full awareness, and he began to remember bits and pieces of his plight.